Drawing Blood We have a wellness program where I work. I don’t normally participate in such tomfoolery for several reasons, the first of which is I don’t like doctors and their holier-than-thou attitudes. They’re always asking you questions you’d rather not answer, and they appear to have a perverted predisposition to sticking things in, on, or up places you’d rather not have things stuck in, on, or up. But, when The Company’s wellness partner offered a free cholesterol test, curiosity got the better of me. I’m 42 years old, and never had my cholesterol tested… on purpose. If I could find out my blood is mainly bacon grease without having to spend the $20 co-pay, why the hell not? I was a bit apprehensive about it all. I don’t have the best diet in the world. In fact, starving Ethernopians probably eat a more balanced diet than I do (thanks to our fucking tax dollars… and Paul Hewson). I just knew that Cholestech machine would trigger sound some alarm that would alert the Fatty Blood Police, landing me in a hospital by the end of the day.

They asked us to fast the night before, and I did. By 9:30 the next morning, I was in our conference room, surrounded by women in latex gloves. While that might sound like something you’d pay someone in Belltown an extra fifty bucks for, these women were armed with pipettes, lancets, SpongeBob SquarePants band-aids, and apple slices.

First it was blood pressue. What is it with blood pressure? Everywhere you go, someone wants to know your blood pressure. The doctor’s office, the dentist’s office, the drug store, Wal-Mart. It’s only a matter of time before we’re ordering quad Venti skinny whip caramel Macchiatos with our arms shoved in a sphygamajigometer cuff. Whatever. As usual, my pressure was 138 over 86. In the United States of Expensive Health Care, my blood pressure is in the prehypertension range. In the United Kingdom of Fucked Up Teeth, my pressure is in the normal range. Maybe if I wasn’t so amped up over some mystical cholesterol numbers that will more than likely change my life as I know it, my blood pressure wouldn’t be 138 over 86. It’s always high when I’m surrounded by people in white lab coats. My wrist-mounted, battery-powered, ninety dollar blood pressure sphydoohickeymeter machine says I’m normal… and that’s US normal, not UK normal.

I got up from one chair and sat in another, next to a phlebotomist in latex gloves. She swabbed my finger and stuck me with a lancet. As expected, blood oozed from the hole in my finger, however, not enough to fill the pipette. She felt pretty bad that she had to prick my finger once more. And again, my blood started to clot and denied the pipette. One of the other women got a bowl of warm water. My desk is under a ventilation duct, and my fingers were a little cold. As I was doing my Madge imitation, a more experienced phlebotomist decided to try her luck with my stingy sausage fingers. She had me hang my hand at my side and really pressed that lancet against my finger in order to get a deeper hole. This time, enough blood flowed for the test. They kicked me free with three holes in my fingers, as I refused to put cartoon band-aids on my fingers. Who am I, Corky Thatcher? I didn’t get to wait for the results; everyone’s results were to be revealed, privately, at a cholesterol seminar on April 8.

As I was enjoying my apple slices, saltine crackers, and glass of water, one of the Blood Girls (who has a really nice ass) came back to my desk and informed me their machine spit out my sample as unreadable, and asked if I’d be willing to subject myself again. This time, they pricked my thumb, and just as with the third attempt, the fourth provided enough blood for the test. I wasn’t leaving the room this time until I knew the machine liked the taste of my blood. While we waited, I sweet talked the women into giving me my results right away. It was more like guilted them, after four holes and enough DNA in the sharps container to keep William Petersen happy for a week. But, it wasn’t to be. Again, their fancy cholesterol and glucose sniffing machine spit out my alien blood like a four year old spitting out asparagus spears. They offered suggestions for the failure, telling me that fouled hematocrit levels, iron deficiency, or lack of oxygenated red blood cells could cause the machine fits. Fucking excellent. Now I’m like my old Mustang… in need of an oil change, or some such shit. I don’t need this worry.

I asked them if we could try again, after everyone else had gone. This time, I took a walk down the hallway and back before the test to get my asthma-riddled lungs sucking on some oxygen. I sat down and they poked a fifth hole in yet another finger. This time, blood flowed easily, and the pipette filled quickly. With my blood dispensed onto the cassette, we waited another five minutes only to find the machine still thought I was alien… or dead.

Since I was at work, I had Tina call my regular doctor and make an appointment for some blood work. My Dad was diabetic and died of ESRD and/or MG, my paternal grandmother was anemic when I was a youngun, and I haven’t have had any blood work done since I started seeing this doctor about two years ago. I now know I’m flagged in my doctor’s computer as “near death” or “hypochondriac,” because they scheduled me for the very next day. My bosses don’t like giving time off without warning, but begrudgingly granted it. Hey, it was YOUR idea for this fucking wellness hoopla. I’d rather plant my ass in front of a computer while eating cheesesteaks than have some blood-thirsty medical student shove a spike in my arm.

The next day, LDriver and I left work at one o’clock so I could get home and take another shower before going to the doctor. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like going someplace that might require me to disrobe after spending nearly five hours (2+ in each direction) in leather seats. I’d rather go to the doctor knowing that the note-taking in his laptop was merely symptom entry, and not “he smells like swamp ass and foot funk.” I can’t have that.

I arrived promptly at 3:58, and checked in with reception. The place was packed for a Friday afternoon, but I only had to wait a couple minutes before they called my name. As soon as I jumped up on the exam table, a temperature probe was shoved under my my tongue, and a goddamn sphyhoochamabobometer cuff was strapped to my arm. Again with the fucking blood pressure! When the doctor came in, he asked what he was seeing me for. I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what you just read above. After a few more questions about my genealogy, I was off to see the phlebotomist. He wrapped a tourniquet around my upper arm, jabbed a hypodermic into my vein, and filled 3 vacuum tubes. The lab sheet said they were performing a CBC, a lipid panel, and a CHEM-7. I paid my $20 co-pay, as my doctor said he’d call me Monday with the results… and to yell at me some more. Sweet.

Monday morning, they called the house, and it went to voicemail. I played voicemail tag with their office for 30 hours, literally, before I finally got to talk to the PA. I was barreling up I-5 at 79 miles an hour at the time, too, and didn’t have anything to write with. She told me my cholesterol was 104, which is great, but my red blood cell count appeared high. She informed me the doctor wanted to do more blood tests to find out why. When asked where I like to get my blood drawn, I told her my arm is acceptable. She laughed, but I don’t think she realized I was kidding. I got the feeling she hears that joke a lot, or other people answer in that manner out of stupidity. I told her having their office draw the blood is fine, and an appointment was made. Of course, I had to cancel that appointment after some bullshit at work would have had me and LDriver driving down in separate vehicles… The new appointment is Tuesday.

One hundred and four? I used my phone to look up what the cholesterol ranges are. Wikipedia indicates that the optimal cholesterol range is 100 to 129… and I’m 104? Whoo hoo! My blood isn’t mostly bacon grease. Wow. My diet consists almost entirely of butter sticks and hamburger fat, washed down with cooking oil. Ya got to love genetics! Since the PA didn’t say my glucose was high, I’m guessing my blood isn’t mostly HFCS, either! I guess I’ll find out why the red blood cell count is so high sometime next week. Doing some cursory homework, it’s probably due to chronic lack of oxygen. This asthma crap kicks my ass during the winter months. LDriver says I should move to Arizona. I would if I could find a job down there… or even had the time to look for one.